Losing The Game
by edken
Summary: Moriarty finally wins. John gets the life he says he's always wanted. If you're looking for a happy ending, don't come here.


**I apologize in advance. I cried while writing this. You've been warned.**

_(Special thanks to huntingdeducingdarrencriss on tumblr, who helped me write bits of this in an old rp! This was her starter so you have her to thank. It was originally a simple text conversation between various characters, and I thought it would make a rather good oneshot. And then this depressing mess happened. Anyway, enjoy!)_

* * *

Every day, at exactly 12 o'clock, Sherlock would receive the same text. Every day, exactly like the last, his phone would vibrate next to him. In his pocket, off the table, against nightstand beside his bed. Wherever he happened to be. And every day, he would ignore it. His jaw would lock and his eyes would get a far off look to them, but once again he would open the text, read the four simple words, and close it again without responding.

**New Text Message From: Unknown Number**

_Did you miss me?_

It took 15 Days for Sherlock to finally respond.

**Reply To: Unknown Number**

_No, as a matter of fact, I did not. SH_

**From: Unknown Number**

_Aw, Sherlock. That hurts my feelings._

**Reply To: Unknown Number**

_Let's cut to the chase, shall we? What is it that you want? SH_

Sherlock tapped his fingers anxiously against the arm of his chair, biting his lip and turning to look out the window. Down at the streets of London, going on as usual, not taking notice to the dark thoughts forming inside one insignificant man's head. Was he actually considering this? Yes, of course, because what other choice did he have? He had become the fly, Moriarty the spider, and this was an inescapable web. He picked up his phone again impatiently, and sent another text since Moriarty hadn't been bothered to reply.

**Reply To: Unknown Number**

_If you were expecting something more interesting, I'm willing to make a deal. SH_

**From: Unknown Number**

_A deal? Dear me, you must be desperate then. Alright, let's hear it. I dare you to surprise me._

**Reply To: Unknown Number**

_It's obviously my life you're after. So take it, but I want a guarantee that you will stay away from certain individuals once I am permanently out of the picture. SH_

**From: Unknown Number**

_I thought I told you to surprise me… this so very predictable. But very well, I will kill you and I won't harm a hair on your pretty little pet's head._

**Reply To: Unknown Number**

_Not just John. I want to ensure the safety of Mrs. Hudson, Molly Hooper, D.I. Lestrade, as well as John and his family. Mary and their child fall under that category. If you give me your word, you can set me on fire for all I care. SH_

**From: Unknown Number**

_I am a man of my word, and you have it. Oh, this is delicious._

_How does little Johnny feel about this?_

**Reply To: Unknown Number**

_I don't plan on telling him. SH_

**From: Unknown Number**

_Oh how cruel of you Sherlock, he won't even see it coming. And I'll get to watch your Johnny fall apart all over again… Maybe he'll even think you're coming back again this time… all that false hope you gave him…_

**Reply To: Unknown Number**

_He will be fine without me. He managed before. SH_

**From: Unknown Number**

_I suppose you'll never know._

Sherlock set the phone down with a steady hand. He told himself this was a good decision. A logical one. It was the only way to truly, beyond any doubt, save John from this returning threat. Because everyone knew that as long as Sherlock was a target, John was next in line.

Not this time though. Not if he could help it.

John deserved a life with Mary. He deserved safety, and to grow old with his child and his wife the way he wanted. Sherlock knew the man would suffer, because this time would be worse. As Moriarty had said, false hope. It was a dangerous thing.

Surely, though, he wouldn't be missed long. He looked back out the window to the people and cars rushing about on the street.

Yes, life would go on as usual.

* * *

A week later, Sherlock was still breathing. Which was unfortunate, because Mycroft decided to drop by.

"Sherlock, I intercepted- by pure chance, of course- a relatively alarming text conversation on your mobile last week." Fat bastard with his military clearance, hacking into his private inbox. Sherlock tensed though, knowing all too well which conversation his brother was referring to. He swiveled his head slowly, looking up at the elder holmes towering over him while Sherlock remained slumped in his chair. He didn't have the energy to stand up and attempt to intimidate his prat of a brother today. Not at all to his surprise, he hadn't slept well since he sold his soul to the devil.

He simply blinked blearily and asked, "What of it?"

Mycroft's softening expression was so brief it could have been a trick of the light, and his cold mask was back in place before Sherlock could decide which it was. "Is it true?"

"Indeed." Sherlock said as he turned his head to stare at the opposite wall.

"Sherlock." Mycroft sighed, and out of the corner of his eye he could see the man bring a hand to rub over his face. "This is not necessary."

Sherlock laughed, a short, humorless laugh that physically hurt to expel from his lungs. He didn't look back up at his brother, instead lowering his gaze to look at the tangled hands resting in his lap. "Isn't it though? I see no other option." His voice was an even, dead pan of murderous calm. Mycroft flinched inwardly at the unusual tone.

"So you're suicidal then, is that it?" He hadn't meant for the sharpness in his voice, but he supposed it was too late now.

Sherlock bristled, and suddenly whipped his head back up to Mycroft. "I am not _suicidal_." He said through gritted teeth. "I don't _want_ to die, but if that's what it takes to keep others alive, then so be it. Moriarty wants _me_, dead on a slab." Mycroft, to Sherlock's surprise, flinched at that, "And if he has to go through John, Molly, or even _you_ to do so, he will. I tried…" Sherlock swallowed, and tore his eyes away once again. When he spoke this time his voice was low and thick as blood, "I tried to beat him and I failed. It's become obvious that this is the only way, so yes, I am giving up. I am forfeiting. Gloat all you want, brother, but this is a game that can no longer be won free of the expense of others." Sherlock hesitated before adding, "Others I happen to care about."

The silence that followed was heavy, and Sherlock's ears began to ring. Finally, Mycroft replied with, "There is nothing I can do to get you out of this, brother mine." His voice was dripping with empathy, which warped the usually cold tone so much it barely sounded like Mycroft anymore.

"I know. But there is something you can do." Sherlock bit his lip again, and added to clarify, "In my absence."

Mycroft involuntarily flinched again, and arched his eyebrows down at his little brother who still refused to meet his gaze. "What could you possibly need from me after you're…" he trailed off, flapping a hand to finish his sentence, "You know."

"Supervise the deal. Watch over them. Please."

Mycroft had to refrain from stumbling backwards as the words hit him full force, almost taking on a physical form and knocking him back like a gust of cold wind. The childhood memory of the story he use to tell Sherlock pushed forward in his mind- _"an east wind is coming"-_ how very fitting for this situation. However the irony did nothing to cushion the blow Mycroft seemed to have taken to the chest, sucking all the oxygen from his lungs, and apparently the correct words from his mind.

Sherlock tore him from his thoughts rather violently. "Do we have a deal, Mycroft?" His voice was tired. Impatient.

"Yes, I will of course do everything in my power to ensure their safety." He swallowed the bile rising in his throat, realizing that when he left this room it could very well be the last time he saw his little brother without the confines of a coffin.

That is assuming there's a body to bury.

Mycroft turned away toward the door at the gruesome thought.

"Oh, and Mycroft." Sherlock said from behind him. When he peered over his shoulder, Sherlock had his head bowed, fingertips pressed together and resting against his lips. "Don't do anything stupid like getting yourself killed, either."

Mycroft smiled sadly. It was the nicest thing his brother had said to him in years.

* * *

**New Text From: Sherlock Holmes**

**_1:45 am_**

_If you haven't already deduced it, this deal with Moriarty is to stay between you and I. John isn't to know until I'm gone. And speaking of which, be sure to give him and everyone else my condolences. I am aware that my death had a greater impact than I anticipated before, and I need you to make it clear there will be no coming back this time._

_Goodbye, Brother. SH_

Mycroft was not awake to receive the text. He was asleep on the plush leather sofa in his office, lying beside an abused bottle of brandy, which now lacked it's original contents completely. The fire would crackle on for hours to come, until Anthea would pop her head in and put out the flames with a hiss, leaving her employer in the dark of his office which was really more like a home.

And she would catch sight of an old cardboard box, curiosity getting the best of her, and peer inside. She would be confused, because instead of government case files she'd pull out an old pirate halloween costume, and a cheap chemistry set made of plastic. She'd find an old notebook, labeled "Grade Four: English" and not be able to read any of the chickenscratch inside it's dogeared pages. She'd sift past an old hoodie, and some small, dirty trainers before coming across the photograph that explained everything.

She would look from the black and white print in her hands back down to the sleeping form of Mycroft Holmes, and then back to the photograph with a vague look of sad horror on her face.

The teenager in the photo was clearly Mycroft, and beside him was a younger child pouting and refusing to actually look at the camera. He had a bandana tied around his forehead, taming an obviously wild head of black curls. There was also a plastic sword peeking out between his arms which were crossed against his chest, and a fake hook for a hand jutting out the other side. Young Mycroft had his arm around him, seemingly forcing the child to stay in place, but the scene was still happy. There was nothing cruel about the hand resting on the younger child's shoulder. It was possessive, if nothing else, and Anthea grinned down at it realizing the touch was actually friendly.

Upon flipping the photo over she would find the label _"Sherlock and Mycroft- 1974"_

With one last curious look down at her sleeping boss, she would tuck the photo back into it's original spot in the box, and leave the room.

The next day Mycroft would show no sign of his moment of weakness, succumbing to nostalgia and a large amount of alcohol, because he had important business to attend to of course.

No time to care.

* * *

Sherlock had not slept at all when his phone rang the next morning. It was still lying in his limp palm from when he'd texted Mycroft at some point in the night. It buzzed against his hand, indicating a call, but he merely stared up at the ceiling and didn't so much as flinch.

This repeated once, twice, three times before his fingers slowly curled around the device and brought it up to his ear.

"What?" He said flatly to whoever made the poor decision to call him.

"Hey mate, it's been an age." Sherlock's insides froze solid at the happy, familiar voice of John. He hated that he suddenly realized how much he missed the man, and that voice. There was static over the line for a moment as Sherlock's breath hitched in panic, his eyes widened, and then in one swift movement he hung up.

Of course though, John called back.

And then he didn't stop calling, so Sherlock hurled the phone against the wall of the sitting room with a growl, causing bits and pieces of shattered glass and plastic to litter the rug.

With a shuddering breath and pressed his palms together and put them to his chin, letting out a long suffering sigh. That was the position he stayed in for the next 31 minutes and 42 seconds until Mrs. Hudson entered the flat.

"...yes he's in his chair having a pout." She giggled, obviously on the phone, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. He heard a crunch as Mrs. Hudson stepped on one of the broken pieces of his phone, and she tutted in disapproval. "Oh, well that's why he hasn't called you back dear, he's gone and smashed his mobile to bits! I'll hand you off to him then."

Sherlock tried to pretend he wasn't imagining strangling the woman when he looked at her and told her to go away.

"Sherlock." She scolded, "It's John! You haven't seen him in a while," She slapped his shoulder, "just talk to him, would you?"

Sherlock snatched the phone from her hand and hated the smug grin that spread across her face. He waited until the insufferable woman left the room before he snapped into the receiver. "Leave me alone, John. I'm busy."

"No, Mary and I are taking you out for lunch. No excuses, it's decided." Sherlock's eyes rolled upward to the ceiling and a short, angry breath parted his lips.

"I said I'm busy."

"And I said too bad." When silence was his only response, John sighed. "Come on Sherlock, I've hardly seen you since everything went down with Magnussen." Sherlock flinched at the memory, but said nothing, "You're lucky not to be in jail, and still alive for that matter."

Sherlock smiled sadly, bowing his head. Oh, if only John knew how lucky he was to still be alive at this very moment. It was a long while before he remembered John was probably expecting a response "I can't." He pursed his lips and wished it wasn't so hard to refuse to see John. Wished that it wasn't the thing he wanted most. "Apologies." he added, being sure not to sound at all sorry.

"Sherlock." John sighed, voice thick with disappointment

"It's for the best, John."

"For god's sake, it's just lunch. A little fresh air could do you good, according to Mrs. Hudson."

"I. Don't. Have. _Time_." Sherlock said through gritted teeth, tone cruel and sinister. What was he going to have to do to get John to leave him alone?

"Fine, but don't be shocked if..." John let out a mischievous laugh, and Sherlock tried not to smirk at the familiarity, "...Oh I dunno, Mary and I show up at the flat around 1 o'clock. Completely coincidentally of course."

The smirk on Sherlock's lips vanished as his insides were once again turned to ice. No, John couldn't be here. Not when Sherlock had a giant bullseye painted on his forehead. It'd be like bringing onto a minefield. _Too dangerous, far too dangerous, it's what Moriarty wants you can't see him not ever again too dangerous too dangerous too dangerous..._

"Sherlock?" John's worried voice sliced through his dark storm cloud of panicked thoughts. Sherlock suddenly realized he's been ever so slightly hyperventilating into the receiver. He cleared his throat and rolled his shoulders back, trying to relax.

"Don't." Was all he was able to say at first, and was eternally grateful that John gave him a moment to compose himself and elaborate. "Please, don't come here. Look, I'm actually saying _please_." He tried desperately.

"Are you okay?" John asked tentatively, although the answer was quite obvious.

"Very busy, John. On a case. Can't sleep much, can't eat. Just seems to go on and on." He spit out, talking a mile a minute trying to restore some sense of normalcy to fool John, "I'll figure it out, much better in fact if you would stop distracting me."

"Right." John said slowly, still quite obviously not convinced. _Damn him_. "Sherlock, can I ask you something?"

The answer should have been a quick 'no', and then he should have dropped Mrs. Hudson's phone into his cup of tea and been done with it, but apparently Sherlock was more pathetic and selfish than he thought, because he answered, "Yes, obviously."

"This doesn't have to do with… _him_, does it?"

Sherlock nearly vomited all over the sitting room floor as the question kicked him straight in the chest. He meant to say no. He meant to spin out a plausible lie and tell John he was a moron for even considering this had to do with Jim Moriarty, but he didn't. His mind was suffering from exhaustion and acute paranoia, and was just too tired to spin out something as intricate as a lie good enough to fool John into leaving him alone. Instead, Sherlock just shut his eyes and breathed out, "John."

He waited for his response to come through the silence that had fallen over the line, and when it did Sherlock hated that tone. "I _knew_ it." John breathed out, and it was angry and frightened, yes, but it also had the familiar edge of '_oh thank god we have a case.'_ John was actually excited about this, like Sherlock used to get when a client buzzed at their door.

He wanted to grab John by the shoulders and shake him. He wanted to tell him that this wasn't like the old days. This wasn't a client which meant the temporary end of boredom, this was his life coming to an end. This was going to become his real headstone, his real funeral, his real _death_. He wanted to scream the truth in John's face and he wanted to say goodbye, properly, but that couldn't happen. Not now, not ever.

"Let me help." John added when Sherlock was unable to respond.

"No." He snapped. John was not coming within a hundred yards of him until he was buried. He grimaced slightly and pushed the mental image from his mind.

"I want to help."

"I know." Sherlock stood from his chair and began to pace, "But I need you to stay out of this, do you understand me?"

"So that's it then?" John's voice was bitter, and Sherlock could picture with perfect clarity the spiteful grin on his face, "You don't need my help anymore?"

Sherlock immediately stopped his manic pacing. Oh, if only John knew how false that statement was. "That's not what I was implying." Sherlock let his eyes fall shut, "This is just a very different situation. It's sensitive and dangerous-"

He was cut off by a cold, sarcastic laugh, "Oh, because god forbid I do anything _dangerous_."

"This isn't like it was before, John." Sherlock snapped, growing impatient once again. His words were charred and harsh around the edges, causing John to once again pause and wonder about the mental state of his friend on the other line. Sherlock rolled his eyes, knowing exactly the predictable sort of thoughts going through John's mind. "Stop worrying." He demanded.

"Shut up." He said back, and to Sherlock's horror his chest tightened with a painful throb of nostalgia at the playful tone. "Look, I'm going mad with baby books and nursery painting. I need this, Sherlock. Let me come over and I'll just sit there while you talk at me for a few hours." He was practically pleading, and Sherlock could feel his stubborn resolve splintering off until he was barely able to refuse any longer.

"You're going to have to find your own danger, John. This is a case for me and me alone."

John sighed, "Fine, I'll just be off playing in traffic then. Don't be shocked when Lestrade calls-"

Sherlock's hands tightened into fists, and he cut John off with a low voice, "Don't joke about that. Just stop. Paint your nursery. Make mary some muffins. Read the newspaper. I don't really care as long as whatever you do is far _far_ away from _me_." Sherlock sucked in a long breath, "And you better steer clear of traffic too."

"Christ, Sherlock, what the hell is wrong with you?" John sounded slightly terrified. Sherlock cursed and once again tried to calm himself down.

"I'm fine, John. Good bye." he hung up Mrs. Hudson's phone, put it on mute, and stuffed it between the sofa cushions before collapsing face down onto it himself, thinking only one thought.

_Why won't he just kill me already?_

* * *

John slowly set down his phone after the line went dead and tried to keep his worrying to a minimum. Because it was useless, wasn't it? If one let themselves worry about Sherlock Holmes, they'd surely die of it. Sometimes you just had to let it go, and wait for him to return from outer space in his own time.

However, John simply sat in his flat and nervously tapped his fingers against his knee until Mary woke up and waddled out, cradling her beachball of a stomach. John shot her a warm, but anxious smile before returning to his staring contest with his phone, daring it to light up with Sherlock's name.

"John?" Mary asked, resting a hand on his shoulder from behind, "Did that stubborn git say no?"

John chuckled distractedly, still staring at the phone, "You could say that." Out of his peripheral vision he saw Mary tilt her head in question, but Just just shook his head. "It's just Sherlock being… Sherlock. I suppose."

"You sure? Because you don't sound very sure."

John finally ripped his gaze from the phone to look at Mary, and after short deliberation he decided that she wasn't the person to confide in with this sort of thing. It was strange, but Sherlock was so rarely distraught that it felt like a betrayal of trust to tell her about it, so he forced a smile onto his face and shook his head again. "Thanks, but he's just on a case. He gets like that. I'm sure he's fine" Mary seemed satisfied with that and walked away back to the bedroom, and John wished it was that easy to convince himself of the same thing.

For the next half an hour he should have been making tea for his pregnant wife, or painting the nursery, or reading up on what to expect with your first child, but instead he passed his silent phone back and forth between his hands and stared forward at nothing in particular, deep in thought.

That is until his phone pinged with a single text message. He opened it up embarrassingly quickly.

**New Text From: Mrs. H**

_I am sorry, John. About lunch. SH_

He still had Mrs. Hudson's phone, which meant she hadn't been kidding when she said the lunatic had smashed his phone against the wall. Any thought he had about Sherlock being fine suddenly vanished. He squinted at the text for a moment, wondering for a moment if he was hallucinating, but then he received another one.

**New Text From: Mrs. H**

_Hopefully my absence won't be of any inconvenience to you. SH_

**Reply To: Mrs. H**

_It's fine Sherlock, I'm used to you being a stubborn arse. But I'm not use to you apologizing or caring about being an inconvenience, so I have to ask again, are you bloody sure you're alright? JW_

**Reply From: Mrs. H**

_Perfectly fine. SH_

John didn't respond. Instead, he swiftly tucked his phone into his pocket and stood up, at the same time shouting over his shoulder, "Mary? I'm going out for a bit. I'll be home later, alright?" She mumbled something sleepily from their bedroom as John shrugged on his jacket. "Love you." He added fleetingly and rushed out the door. Once he was out in the crisp London air, which always did wonders to clear his head, he pulled his phone back out to respond to Sherlock.

Unfortunately, the air was doing nothing for his head this time.

**Reply To: Mrs. H**

_I won't keep asking. All I'm saying is that you don't sound fine. JW_

**Reply From: Mrs. H**

_Good. And I am fine, why wouldn't I be fine? SH_

**Reply to: Mrs. H**

_I don't know Sherlock. With you, it could be anything. JW_

John placed his phone back in his pocket, not sure if it was because he didn't know exactly what to say anymore, or because he was afraid of what he might end up saying. Either way, he supposed he was on his way to Baker Street. It wasn't where he initially intended on going, but there was really no other destination he had in mind. Maybe if he just showed up even Sherlock wouldn't have the heart to push him away.

Just like old times.

* * *

It had been twenty minutes since John had texted him back.

Sherlock was pacing.

He had seven nicotine patches stuck to his forearms.

His hair was standing up at impossible angles.

His breath came out in uneven little huffs.

His hands curled and uncurled until he finally snatched Mrs. Hudson's phone back up from the arm of his chair and dialed John's number.

It took three tries because his hands were shaking so violently.

When John picked up the phone he didn't even give the man a chance to speak. Sherlock snarled, "Where are you?"

"Why?" John asked, sounding startled.

Sherlock could hear cars rushing past and pedestrians talking near John on the other line. _Damn it._ "Because I think you're near Baker Street and you can't be here."

"Calm down." John said soothingly. It did absolutely nothing to stop the firing synapses in Sherlock's brain, setting each panicked thought on fire, causing flames to lick at the inside of his skull as his sanity burned to a crisp. John can not be here. Moriarty wants to hurt him beyond repair. He's been waiting for the army doctor to stop by, as he inevitably would, and that's when he'd do it. Sherlock had worked it all out.

Moriarty wanted nothing more than to see John break once again, after watching his best friend die right in front of him for a second time.

Once was too many for a life time. Twice was enough to break anyone, even someone as strong as John Watson.

Sherlock didn't want to be the source of that kind of pain again. At least if the police found him, and John got the call, he wouldn't have any memories to haunt him at night. No image of his skin burning, of his blood spilling out, of his bones being crushed. However he was meant to be killed, he didn't want John to see it.

And he was walking right into the trap.

"Turn around." Sherlock ordered, his voice surprisingly even.

"Why do you think I'm near Baker Street?" John asked, attempting to sound innocent. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Lying really didn't suit an honest man like John.

"I said, _turn. around._"

A moment of hesitation, "No."

Sherlock pounded his hand on the coffee table, causing his forgotten mug of tea to spill across the floor. He didn't care. "John, I am actually _begging_ you to turn around, and go home."

"Yeah, see, that's not going to work." _John you stupid stupid amazing idiot, I don't want to hurt you, just go home,_ "Whatever this is, I'm coming and I'm going to help you work it out." _Damn you John. Damn you for being so kind and caring and brave. Mycroft was right, those who care always get hurt in the end. Like you, John. If you come here you're going to see me die.. Please go home. Pleasepleaseplease._

Sherlock was physically unable to say any of these thing out loud. And if he did, he knew very well it would only make John run here faster rather than walk.

Curse the brave heart of the soldier.

* * *

John had hung up on Sherlock mid sentence (_"No, John, you don't understa-"_) and now he was face to face with the front door of 221B, the brass letters staring at him. One corner of his mouth quirked up into a half smile before he used the spare key to turn the lock.

He'd kept it for, you now, safe keeping.

As soon as he was inside he called up the stairs, "Hey, Sherlock, don't shoot me alright? I'm coming up." He slowly walked up the steps, avoiding the one he remembered always creaked, and rested a hesitant hand on the doorknob to the flat. He didn't have to work up an nerve though, because suddenly the knob disappeared from under his fingers as Sherlock wrenched open the door.

John blinked stupidly at him. "Hi?"

"Hello John. Lovely to see you, really. But you're going to have to leave now." Just as John was able to get a good look at the man's sunken face, his wild hair, and the several nicotine patches visible on his arms, Sherlock was grabbing his shoulders and spinning him back around. "Goodbye." Sherlock said shortly before one of his hands practically pushed John back down the stairs.

John teetered for only a moment before whipping back around just in time to catch the door from slamming in his face. "Bloody hell Sherlock!" He grunted against the door pressing into his bad shoulder, "Let me in, for god's sake!" He wrestled against the door, but Sherlock was pushing back just as hard. John wedged his foot just barely inside the gap, which turned out to be a mistake when the door slammed hard against it.

_Sod it,_ John thought in a annoyance fueled by the new throbbing in his foot. He rammed his shoulder into the door the way he'd been trained to in the army, the soldier part of him finally coming to the surface. Sherlock, being the string bean he was, stumbled back several feet and John took the opportunity to push the door fully open.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" He panted, "You nearly broke my foot in half, thank you very much!"

But John paled slightly as he realized the calm facade which was on Sherlock's face before had dissolved. His face was blanched, his eyes wide. He backed a few more steps away from John, looking like some kind of abused animal.

The first thing that came to mind was the obvious: drugs. But John quickly dismissed the idea, because he'd seen Sherlock high before. There were no dilated pupils, no placid calm to his face, no flushed cheeks or red rim around his eyes. No, Sherlock looked much more like he had years ago in Baskerville. Panic stricken, afraid, and much more mad than usual.

A bit not good, that.

John deflated, forgetting about the pain in his foot and shoulder. He tried to take a step toward Sherlock but he put a hand up, backing another step away. John froze.

"You need to go." Was all Sherlock choked out, voice blocked by the breath hitched in his throat. Suddenly, he felt like he was being watched from all sides. It was as if Moriarty were the walls themselves, slowly collapsing in on him and all John had to do was stand and watch. _Why hadn't he just listened?_ "You need to leave. Right. Now. Please," He continued, his eyes flickering from the door to the windows and all other possible entrances. "God, I wouldn't even care if it weren't for you."

Clearly, John had truly underestimated the situation. What kind of mess had Sherlock gotten himself into that John couldn't help with?

And then the words started to sink in. Slow and painful, settling into his muscles like shards of glass, causing him to tense. He'd never seen this man more scared of anything in his life, and then he'd gone and said…

"Sherlock? What do you mean, if it weren't for me? You wouldn't care about what?"

Sherlock took a few long strides across the room until he was face to face with John. He couldn't stop it now. This had reached the irreversible point where the conversation could not be left unsaid. Yet, somewhere in the back of his mind a red flag was swaying in a gust of cold wind. _Don't tell John, it's going to break him._

Sherlock had to remind himself though, that he was going to break anyway.

He took a deep breath, and with John's face only a few inches from his own he used it as an anchor to keep him here, on earth. John's gravity pulled him through as he told him the last thing he knew he friend wanted to hear, "John, I'm going to die."

John recoiled, as Sherlock knew he would, with an invisible _'NO'_ written on his face. Sherlock had to continue though, before he lost his nerve and broke down right there. _Another deep breath, and go._ "Yes, John. I'm going to die. Moriarty is going to come, and he is going to kill me. And I wouldn't give a damn-!" Sherlock shut his eyes, and gripped onto John's jumper- when had his hands gotten to John's shoulders? He snapped his eyes open again and forced himself to watch as his words impacted his friend. His only friend in this world. "I wouldn't give a damn," He repeated much quieter this time, "If it weren't for _you_."

"Sherlock." John whispered shakily, still holding his shell shocked expression. He was not going to let this happen.

Little did he know that he had no power over the fate of the man currently clinging to him. The man people often doubted was even human, clinging to his only ever source of comfort looking not only very much human, but like a frightened child. John's heart began to crack and whither in his chest.

"Sherlock, please-" He started to beg, but that was the wrong thing to say. Sherlock cut off his plea with a growl, and pushed him away a bit harder than he'd intended. He tore himself from John's orbit, which in turn tore away the rest of his self control. The rest of his sanity.

He began to pace.

"I'd be welcoming him in for a cup of bloody tea right now if I weren't so preoccupied with worrying about _you_!" John wasn't sure if the disgust in his voice was meant for him, or the idea of caring for anything at all. "If I didn't have to think about you having to stand here and watch!" He was positively shouting now, and John's skin was growing more and more cold with each passing second. He froze over all at once though, when Sherlock suddenly stopped pacing and turned on him with narrowed eyes. "God, you walked right into this. You utter moron, John! Can't you see he's been waiting?" He pressed a hand to his mouth as if to stifle the words coming out of it, and John watched in horror as layer by layer the man he once knew peeled away before his eyes.

He was suddenly wishing he could be back in this room for the first time, with the madman who dragged him across london to look at dead bodies. He wish they could both just go back.

Everything was different then.

Sherlock was breathing hard against the back of his hand, breath coming out in short hisses. It was the only sound either of them could hear until Sherlock closed his eyes and whispered, still muffled by his hand, "I told you to stay away."

John let out a desperate whimper. "How could I stay away Sherlock? How was I suppose to know?" He suddenly felt dizzy as he looked helplessly to Sherlock, hoping that any second he was going to drop the act. He was going to start laughing at him and John was going to try and punch him, and nobody was going to die, and everything would be back to normal.

But this time, that moment didn't come. The pain in Sherlock's expression, which he probably didn't even know he was expressing outwardly, didn't fade. A few long seconds ticked by of torturous eye contact, and John rocked back on his heels with a frustrated hum.

"No," He jabbed a finger into the air, "No, Sherlock. I won't…" He let out another hum again as his lungs failed him, lowering his eyes. He shut them for a moment against his suddenly light head, and then brought them back to level with the man standing before him. "I won't lose you again. I. will. not."

Sherlock let out a broken sound and turned away again, mumbling nothings to himself. His hands were both lost somewhere in his raven curls, eyes shut tight. "Killing myself would just mean the deal's off because then technically he didn't kill me…" The words were all strung together, fast and manic, but John was used to that.

And he heard the words all too clearly.

Sherlock jumped practically out of his skin when he felt a heavy hand come down on his shoulder. He whipped around to see John with a hard expression on his face. "Sorry, did I just hear something about a deal?" His voice was dark and dangerous, the hand still gripping Sherlock's shoulder dug into the muscle, but Sherlock didn't flinch. He felt numb, as if he was already fading from the world. Only half here.

"John. I am so sorry."

John shook his head, not able to accept this. Not yet. In fact, not ever. "Sherlock, explain." He snapped, "Explain now. I don't understand… a deal? Why would you ever-" The words died with a growl in his throat as he released Sherlock with a shake of his head.

Sherlock let out a single, broken breath and John could hardly believe it, but a tear from each eye fell to the floor. _Ohgodohgodohgod no this can't be happening, not again, not Sherlock, please…_ The lunatic was shaking his head now, and unspoken apology. An unspoken goodbye.

"It was the only way, John." He shrugged helplessly, "I vowed to keep you, and your family, safe. That's what I'm doing."

And that's when it happened.

That's when the whole world stopped turning for a moment, because a shaky, red dot appeared at the center of Sherlock's forehead. John's eyes widened and he fought against the will to tackle Sherlock to the floor.

He wasn't fast enough. Nobody was fast enough to save him now.

He was unable to do anything but stare at the quivering little dot dancing over a few of Sherlock's curls. Couldn't breathe, couldn't move, couldn't think.

He suddenly doubted he'd be capable of any of those things ever again.

A scrap of sanity forced a few strangled words from his mouth, but John wasn't sure which part of his brain was still working enough to supply them. Probably the mangled mess left over from Afghanistan. "Sherlock, get on the floor. Now."

Sherlock swallowed, and lifted his chin up slightly, "John." his voice was calm now, and John recognized that tone. He could feel his insides begin to melt as desperation coursed through his very veins. _No, Sherlock, you're not giving up on me, not now..._

"John." Sherlock repeated, bringing him back, "Listen to me. I need you to leave. Don't give him the satisfaction."

John's face crumbled, his breath hitched, and he had no idea how he was still standing. "I can still save you." A small sob tore itself free from his chest, "Please don't leave me again, Sherlock"

And then, he was suddenly angry, although tears were overflowing down his face, "John, if you don't leave right now you're going to see my brain be blown out of my skull. I don't want to be the center of your nightmares, I don't want you to live with that image for the rest of your life. Just do this for me," Sherlock paused for a moment, realizing the familiarity of the words. Realizing where he was the last time he said them. And going by the strangled half sob John let out, he realized it too. He knew there was no stopping what was about to happen. "Get a cab. Go home to Mary. _Please_."

John wanted to rush forward. He wanted to put his arms around Sherlock and never let go. Maybe that would save him, or the bullet would take them both. Either way he wouldn't be forced to live without him again. He wished that just this once, he could be bulletproof. He wished that just this once he could be the one to save Sherlock. He knew that this time, there would be no coming back two years later. He knew there would be no champagne, no getting kicked out of restaurants for punching your best friend in the face. He knew there would be no "Return of the Great Hat Detective" all over the news. There would be no celebration of his resurrection, because it would never happen.

And right now, as they shared this last fleeting look, John hoped Sherlock could see everything he didn't have time enough to say. All the things he'd probably never say out loud, not even to his headstone.

The real one this time.

He hoped Sherlock knew how badly he wished he could take this bullet for him. The bullet that was about to destroy the greatest, and most complex mind John had ever come to know.

But then he thought of Mary, and his unborn daughter. He thought about all the years he'd have with them now, thanks to this man and his last vow to his family. He knew that the tiny red dot marking his forehead was him following through, as always.

So John nodded.

A soldier's salute, to the best man he had ever known.

With tears brimming over his eyes, the pathway to the door was blurred when he turned on his heel.

But that was okay. He had this place memorized.

He'd never forget.

He was only halfway down the stairwell when he heard the dull thump of a body hitting the floor.

And then, he ran. Straight back into the london air, which would probably never be able to clear his head again.

* * *

The funeral was beautiful.

There were decadent flowers, and color coordinated ribbons. Mrs. Hudson had insisted.

Lestrade gave a speech, although John knew everyone had been expecting him to do that bit. He had soon realized there were no words for this sort of thing.

He hadn't been able to give a speech the first time, either.

And John couldn't tell you what Lestrade had managed to come up with, because he stepped out halfway through. There were so little people there he knew it wouldn't go unnoticed.

Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Lestrade, Anderson, and Mary.

None of them tried to stop him from leaving.

He was shocked to find Mycroft just outside the doors. They nodded in agreement, and stood beside each other silently, not even trying to listen to the end of Lestrade's speech.

Everyone cried that day, except John.

Everyone had kind words to say, except John.

And eventually, everyone left.

Except John.

All he was able to do all day was think about how much Sherlock would have hated it.

He stayed at the grave for hours. He didn't speak. He didn't ask for any miracles. He let Sherlock rest, and he just stared at the recently dug up earth, knowing that in a few months grass would cover the messy pile of dirt. He knew that in a few months the polished stone would be dirty and faded, no matter how many times he tried to clean it up.

He knew how all this would work, because he'd done it once before.

The deja vu he felt didn't make anything easier.

Nothing really did anymore, but he went on with his life, because that's what Sherlock had died for. He'd died to give him a life with his family, and he wasn't about to waste it.

Every morning he woke up and told himself he was happy. And even though it was years before he began to finally believe it again, he eventually did.

He had one man to thank. For everything. And every week, he did just that at the local cemetery, carrying a bouquet like some old sap.

It was okay though. It was all fine.

And his daughter grew up on bedtime stories about her uncle Sherlock, the hero who saved daddy. He always knew Sherlock's memory would live on in one way or another. The london air still hummed with his presence. The scotland yard would never forget the world's only consulting detective.

The world would never truly be rid of Sherlock Holmes.

And thank god for that.


End file.
